


Avalon

by estike



Category: La Légende du Roi Arthur - Savio & Skread & Zaho/Chouquet/Attia, アーサー王伝説 | La Légende du Roi Arthur - Takarazuka Revue
Genre: F/M, Gen, Multi, canon compliant incest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-29
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-06-18 00:38:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15473652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/estike/pseuds/estike
Summary: Ever since Arthur's conception, Merlin was denied sleep. Now, a long-awaited dream wakes him to the truth, and he learns that both the enemy and the key to glory wait for Arthur in the south.If only he could convince Morgane to set her vengeance aside and fulfil the prophecy he saw illuminated in the dark, perhaps all his sins could be forgiven.





	1. Overture - Visions of an Old Wizard

**Author's Note:**

> Based on an idea dear to me we came up with an old friend - I thought it was time that I wrote it down; because it is better to have it in its flawed nature than consigning it to oblivion. 
> 
> The story is loosely based on the Takarazuka version of the _musical_. But mostly, I grabbed some of the main characters and took them as far away from even the musical's canon as possible.  
>  I do not even want to pretend that I know enough about the original mythology/canon, or that this story will have any connection to it. Please read with that in mind. Hope you will enjoy it anyway. 
> 
> This is probably a bit different from what I normally post, in style and length as well, my apologies for that.

The last time Merlin slept was the night before Arthur’s conception. In his dream, something told him no. The next day, Uther told him yes.

A slave is a slave, of thoughts and masters, but some of us strive to fight against it. Merlin never. Too young of a mage, perhaps, or simply too weak at the will he was at that time. It is easy to preach but it is so hard to fight. And Uther was strong… he was so strong in the mind. The path seemed easier if you were to walk alongside him with the breeze behind your backs sending you off, instead of facing both him and the wind. Man wants peace, so man does whatever his king pleases and prays for the best. Man learns through failure.

Now he is in possession of cosmic truths his old self could have never had access to. Was it not for failure. The time will come when the truth will be measured, and the gods will look down on him and they will not cry. No pity in their eyes.

The gods have not answered him, ever since Arthur was conceived. He is an old wizard now, and yet the paths he takes are just as dark as underground passageways in the castle dungeons. If he holds his hands out, he can perhaps touch the stones of the wall, cutting his fingers, leading him astray.

But isn’t Arthur as much of his son as he is Uther’s? Who is more responsible for his existence: his father, or Merlin. So, even with his fingers cut on stones that spell M-o-r-g-a-n-e, even with his tired, lifeless grey eyes, he cannot sleep.

He hasn’t slept since Arthur was conceived, and he will not sleep again until his realm is saved. At least this is what Merlin thought before.

With powerful forces such as Morgane’s magic in flooding the castle, his awareness is stirred even more awake. No rest. Even floors apart he can feel the disdain her soul emits, painting the castle walls black. She wants something, and she does not even try to make it into a secret. When the night is at its height, Merlin feels the hatred pouring under his very own skin, _you’ve done this, villain_.

So, when one night he is pulled into a vivid dream as he is standing that way, scrying for future events and boundless wisdom with his staff in hand, he is just as surprised as he is relieved. Finally, rest. But even in his dream, he cannot lose awareness. From the moment he falls asleep, he understands that he is dreaming.

When he wakes up, he is afraid.

For a moment, someone, perhaps the gods, (he hears you, Arianrhod!) lit a torch for him, and he saw two steps ahead in the black tunnel before his vision would darken again. For a moment, he was closer to the truth.

And if he thought that those stones in the wall, spelling M-o-r-g-a-n-e were a threat before, bruising his hands. If he ever dared to call her a threat, anything close to a nuisance. Well then… He is afraid, he is scared, he is wronged. He is awake. He is awake.

The last time something told him no, and this time, something tells him "go." He offered his life on the altar for the glory of Arthur’s kingdom, and the gods left his pleas unanswered. They did not want such a pitiful scapegoat. His life means nothing to them, it is not enough to satisfy their hunger. Now Camelot is in an even bigger crisis than before. Guinevere forced her way into the castle, despite his forewarnings. Morgane broke into their lives with a curse on her lips. Lancelot… Lancelot, too.

But these are no obstacles. He was too blind to see. M-o-r-g-a-n-e, the stones spelt, and he thought it was the enemy.

The real nemesis is in the South.

Now he knows that, and he is afraid. The real nemesis is in the South, and the key to Arthur’s glory also lays there. He is not enough to protect him: he never was. In that moment of clarity that leads him forward, he sees that there are more people ready to lend a hand than he would have ever imagined. There are more people protecting Arthur than Merlin ever knew (and he should have known!), and more of them who bloom love in their hearts for him, no matter how hidden and how crooked that love might be. In the name of those, he must do something, even though he had always been stagnating at the same place.

(Fate cannot be changed and yet Merlin tried so many times to chase Guinevere away from anywhere near Arthur, as a fleeting attempt to protect him. Fate cannot be changed, he knows this, and yet he begged Morgane to stop her endeavours to seek revenge so many times, even though the path has been nothing but black before him. Now fireworks illuminated the road ahead and suddenly he understands. Suddenly, he feels. They all branded Arthur with a sort of love he will never be able to feel. There is something greater than any of them that can and will hurt Arthur, and it will do so as soon as possible. As soon as they let it.)

But isn’t Arthur as much of his son as he is Uther’s? Who is more responsible for his existence: his own father, or Merlin, who made the conception possible, through deception and grey magic. In any case, Uther is now dead and gone. There is only Merlin and the proof of his sin.  Sometimes he thinks that perhaps erasing Arthur would bring him the relief he has been looking for. The relief from his sin. It is only ever a fleeting thought, ready to be dismissed the moment it comes to him. Sin would only accumulate on top of sin and the gods have no words for him already. The buzzing silence hurts his ears.

He wakes from the dream more disturbed than ever. Life before his eyes is as mysterious as it would be for any ordinary mortal. The prophecy on his shoulders weighs him down heavier than ever. Why did you not say beforehand? Why did only now the glimpse come, when it is almost too late?

The moment to finally right his wrongs has finally come. Now, or never. Today might be too early, but tomorrow might be too late.

Merlin fixes his robe and descends his tower. The doors to Morgane’s chambers are open.

He does not go to Arthur first, there is nothing he could do about this. Arthur is just a victim, floating on the sea of fate, the same way as all of them. Morgane, however. If he looks down on his hands, he could almost see the blood where she bruised him, disguised as sharp stone walls.

Morgane is not waiting for him, but she may as well be. Her plump lips are pursed up in disgust when she sees Merlin’s tired, desperate face. He does not care, he has no pride. He comes to negotiate… No. He comes to beg for Arthur’s life.

“Say, my lady Morgane. Have you ever dreamed of waking a dragon?”


	2. King Arthur - Trapped in the Tower of Solitude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot to mention it before, but there is also a [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/marie-isidore/playlist/6rXwnFYJsSANFae3bLJorK?si=7Vej2M6iRi2hzD7RsGfawg) for this story I made a long time ago, so if you are into that, please feel free to listen.

He slushes through the mud with his bride on one side and his Lancelot on the other. His bride is smiling, heavy layers of skirts gathered under her hands, and yet the bottom is soiled brown through and through. Lancelot does not smile.

Lancelot rarely smiles although there is always so much to celebrate. So much to blindly look past, ignore, shove in the back of one’s mind.

Arthur only ever allows himself the luxury of being anywhere near melancholic when he is alone, or when nobody but Merlin is in the room with him. People have all sorts of expectations towards sovereigns, and fear, mourning, desperation, sorrow, is not something they are looking for them to display. If he cannot be the strong foundation his kingdom needs, then what point is in being king… His subjects do not want to see any of that.

And if there is no time for mourning, who could blame him for seeking that little happiness a sovereign can get? (Good or bad, kings have rarely enough time for their private feelings.) Who could blame him for seeking the good in the things that are already half rotten? Who could blame him for turning a blind eye and hoping for a better tomorrow!

(Merlin.)

Being blind to things you cannot change is oftentimes the better answer. Taking notice only brings scaffolds, pain, and unnecessary violence to a place that is already overflowing with all of those. He only ever answers violence with violence if he must. The world will never change unless people choose tolerance. In the face of a crisis, people are always given a second to make a choice, between peace and terror. Between tolerance and chaos.

So, if he was not smiling the way his bride smiles now as they trek through the desolate fields on their way back to the castle, what would he do? Wipe the chalices off the long, elegantly decorated tables during a feast in a fury, rip all the heavy curtains off the castle windows, send a person or two to the scaffold to be torched? Hoping that their screams would make him feel more satisfied than remorseful in the end?

That is exactly what Morgane wants from him. Violence. She always says.

“You know that old wizard would be more use to you roasted. I always wondered how long it would take for him to start screaming and begging for his pitiful life once you set fire to his hateful little frame.”

And she would say it as the most natural thing too, it frightens Arthur. Death should at least put the slightest fear in humans.

That said, considering Morgane “human” is perhaps something too hasty of a choice on his part. The proof of Morgane’s humanity is not plentiful, no matter where he looks at it from. Her ebony hair oftentimes collected in something that could only be described as infernal horns, and the black, empty eyes always made her seem more like a creature that crawled her way through hell just to end up in this castle.

Arthur knows her nature, of course. It is difficult not to see the hatred in the black of her eyes, or hear it in the edge of her voice, always talking him down. He is no alien to wishing he was not ever put on this world. But is she not right in thinking so? Was her life not unjustly ruined, the same way as his?

“That woman is full of poison and blind lust for vengeance,” Merlin keeps warning him, with tired eyes and large hand motions, his robe flying in the air.

But Morgane does not try to hide her hatred, even when she speaks with a sweetened tongue. She puts on airs only to make sure everyone knows what she is truly in pursuit of: even when she tries to perform kindness, all of her actions are to remind them of Merlin’s sin. And so, Arthur trusts her, and ignores Merlin’s empty threats.

It is because she cares.                                                                                                                                        

One cannot crawl out the depths of hell with all her might, one cannot resign herself to spend a lifetime with people she despises for the sake of revenge, if she did not care so deeply.

Arthur does not know much of magic, but surely, she could have sent a curse, a chalice full of poison, a hex, a demon friend, even, never to show her face in the castle. Instead, she came with all she had to Camelot. She came to see the place herself. She came to feel.

Indifference is beyond help. Indifference cannot be redeemed, cannot be saved, cannot be fixed.

But Morgane cares. Feels under the layers of steel she invented for herself as a skin. When heart meets heart, Arthur knows a good one. He also knows a fellow victim, suffering from solitude.

Which is how he knows why Lancelot is not smiling now, even though their arms are hooked, a chain of three. If only they had ambition…

“We could be inseparable, the three of us,” Arthur thinks out loud.

So why aren’t we? But he does not ask that. That is something he cannot allow himself. From the outside, they are probably seen as such, inseparable, following in each other’s footsteps, never seen without the other. But at night, he always retreats to his chambers alone. He latches the door and does not try to hear whatever happens on the other side of the walls.

From the outside, they seem inseparable, as if they were sewn together, arms linked to one another. On the inside, he is locked away in a tower of solitude, and the walls only grow higher each moment he spends with his bride and with his Lancelot.

After the second time, Merlin started scolding him. “My lord, you cannot admit every rootless stranger that winds up at your caste in an attempt to soothe your solitude.”

“Lancelot is no rootless stranger. He is a brave young fellow who has proved himself to be worthy.” Or at least he thought that time, or he wanted to think so, or he wanted to know so.

Arthur loves him still. He might be a reminder of his solitude, but not the cause of it. On his left, still, Lancelot refuses to smile, carrying the weight of Arthur’s isolation, and his own new-found company.

His bride tugs at his arm and shines up at him. Her eyes are full of wistful naivety, as she asks. “Inseparable, you mean something not unlike a marriage?”

Lancelot coughs, and he has to stop for a moment to collect himself, unlinking his arm from Arthur’s. A moment later he pretends nothing happened, only his eyes get teary as he speaks out, hastily. Something about the idea being inappropriate, and borderline offensive. How he would never even …

“Oh, but you should!” Arthur exclaims quickly, to wipe away those tears of guilt from his eyes.

A silence sets between them, most of them assuming it is because of a misunderstanding. Arthur cannot say more than this, or Merlin will catch him and preach of the unknown ways of fate, of Guinevere and Lancelot ruining his kingdom with their mere existence, the heartache, the pain, the destruction.

Heartache, pain, and destruction awaited him at every single path he decided to take in his life, so if more would come his way… well, it is not that he isn’t afraid. He’s just used to it.

He is used to it, but he does not have to love it.

 

It is merely an hour that he is allowed to have for himself, with his bride on one side, and his Lancelot on the other. One hour, and duty calls him again, so at least for that ephemeral moment, he wants to forget about all the heartache, the pain, the destruction, the solitude.

Even if he has to use force on himself to say farewell to these awful thoughts. At night they come back anyway, and the only thing he can do is telling himself that the day will come when the heartache and the pain are gone. When he can finally build on top of the ruins of this kingdom and replace destruction with love and progress and tolerance. When his solitude would be eased and soothed by a kindred spirit.

(He remembers waking up in an unfamiliar bed all that time ago, his eyes meeting the eyes of another lonely soul, thinking he found the medicine he needed. It is a hard and painful lesson to realize that two lonely souls can keep being lonely while existing next to each other. Arthur begs to be able to love and begs to be loved, but there is nobody in this world who would listen to his pleas.)

“My lord,” Guinevere calls for him, a single tap on his hand. He feels like he has been called back from a different side of consciousness, not realizing where he is for a moment. “Is that Merlin there? In the distance?”

Pointing at a grey figure in the distance, standing below the castle, it is most likely that his bride is right. She tilts her head. “Is he waiting for something?” 

Perhaps his hour is already over, Arthur reminds himself. An hour he spent somewhere in the sky, instead of spending it with his Guinevere and his Lancelot – in the only place where he is allowed to have them both. Somewhere away from the public eye. Somewhere those two may feel less of a need to hide.

And the more they are themselves, the more he knows he does not belong with them, after all. The more he knows that the bond between their hearts is stronger than the love they can give him. And he has been starved out for love for so long, he will take even the most bittersweet drop, waiting it to stop stinging one time. Instead of nourishing himself, pampered in love, it feels like ripping open old wounds, forcing himself to bleed out again and again.

“My lord, a word,” Merlin requests, once the three of them are in hearing distance.

He looks tired, Arthur thinks to himself, like a man who has not slept for the past twenty-five years or so: if such a thing was even possible in this world. Merlin has a staff in one hand he uses to balance himself with. The other is shaking.

“Let us change and we will hear you out.”

“No. Only you, my lord.” The tone of voice he uses makes him want to retort with something, but before he could open his mouth, Merlin continues. “Changing your garments can wait.”

Sometimes he wonders if the wizard remembers that he is not, in fact, his father, simply a loyal retainer. Well, a retainer, who is supposed to act loyal and obedient. Arthur silently follows him to the castle, across the throne room, through the dark hallways, until he finds himself in Morgane’s private chambers.

This is the first time he visits this part of the castle since Morgane decided all by herself that her new home would be in Camelot. The space seems even darker than before, even though the sun is up outside, and the curtains are drawn. A cold runs through him. Morgane waits for them there, motionless. She does not even blink.

“Lancelot and my bride are refused entry, and yet, you have her here? I thought you did not trust her.” Betrayed is not exactly how he feels, so he adds, in a much lower tone, almost in a whisper as his voice cracks in the question. “Why?”

“Does Lancelot know a lot about magic and otherworldly creatures, my lord?” Merlin asks him, with melancholic patience in his eyes. He does not look happy about this situation, neither does Morgane. So why are they all here then? “Because if it is so, please have someone fetch him… _If_ it was a matter of your pleasure, surely, I would call for him, but today I am afraid he will be of no use.”

So, this is a matter of another inevitable tragedy pursuing Camelot. Not only that, but it makes Merlin go against his own advices, discussing the matter with Morgane herself. If Arthur could have an hour of rest for every time he advised against even listening to that woman!  He takes a deep breath before speaking.

“He is very good with the sword,” he retorts then, making a last attempt at having at least one person in this room who would become a support to him.

When Merlin is busy with his prophecies and fate, he cannot be trusted to take his king’s side. Especially now, when he is standing with Morgane on his own volition. She rolls her eyes and makes a step towards him. She has to look up when she talks to him.

“This is not a sword matter,” the woman simply says. “In fact, your sword might be more than useless in this case, perhaps a hindrance. Forget about it.”

Instead of forgetting about it, Arthur feels somewhat relieved. He is not particularly skilled with the sword, so anything that did not involve arms might prove to be an advantage for him.

“Then, at least tell me what this is about.”

He has been here for how long, and these two did nothing but speak cryptically. Is it that people with magic are so different that even their ways of speech will not cooperate with ordinary human’s like him?

“He finally had a glimpse into the future,” Morgane mocks the wizard, in her deep, sizzling tone, and an un-genuine smile appearing on her red lips.

_Camelot is in a crisis_ , he thinks to himself, pretending to be Merlin, the doomsayer, in his own head. Merlin nods.

“My lord, I have seen a prophetic dream. You will abandon Camelot as soon as possible, and head for the south, where glory awaits you. Do you remember when I talked about the Grail with you?”

He stares at the upper corner of Morgane’s chambers: there was no time for him to forget about it. Another task, which will allegedly bring him glory and peace, yet he sees nothing of it. He never sees anything of Merlin’s words, they just accumulate, pile on top of each other, weighing down his shoulder. No. Enough.

“What if … I do not want glory? What if I just stay here and … and rule Camelot without any care of whatever that promised glory is that awaits me at a foreign land? What if I don’t _need_ glory?”

“Fate cannot be escaped. If you refuse to go, it will come for you, my lord.” Merlin coughs. “And trust me, if it comes for you, horrors will surely accompany it as well.”

Merlin says glory, but what he means seems to be “doom.” How could something good turn into horrors by the time it makes its way to Camelot? If only people were honest to him about his future, and instead, they are trying to hide everything from him, hoping that he cannot tell the difference between pleasure and pain.

“Will you not tell me more about it? About whatever you _order_ me to face?”

“Morgane will tell you about it.”

The both of them stare at Merlin, distraught. He does not seem to take notice of it. Or on the contrary, he does not care. He gestures towards the woman.

“Morgane swore to me that she would lend a hand in this matter and be by your side. Even she understands that no matter her feelings and reluctance, the stakes are too high for all of us involved not to help each other. If we do not work together, all of us will lose.”

She suddenly laughs, and her black ringlets bounce in front of her face, shaking with her shoulders. “What, you are afraid that you do not know what you have seen, old man, that you need my help to explain?”

“Not at all. I simply know that we have no more time to waste today. You will have enough time to speak on the boat tomorrow, early in the morning.”

What boat, they both ask, their voices ringing in unison.

How can Merlin call all of them together to have a talk, and yet, manage to say nothing all along?  

Merlin walks to the small window of the chambers and gazes out to the vast landscape under them. When he wanted to have a weight of his words, he would always do this: waste some time, even though he just proclaimed that they do not have any of that.

“Morgane and you are bonded by fate, even though it might not be a happy fate. She fights against it, and so would you, perhaps, if you did not strive to be known for tolerance. Even so, these broken bonds will not help you once you are on the road towards the yet unknown. The journey you need to take is long, tiring, and dangerous: you will go into the unknown, and you have to do so without me. So, before that, Arthur needs protection. A ritual to bring him good luck and power.”

Morgane takes a strand of hair between her fingers, spinning it as she replies. Again, her thin smile is full of malice. She might hate Merlin more than she hates Arthur. (And she must despise Arthur, to begin with.) “And why won’t you put that spell on him?”

“Magic shared between two is an intimate thing, it creates a stronger bond. Arthur and you will embark on a journey that will test not only your skill with spells, Morgane, but the trust between you two as well. I could put a protective spell on him, but your history will make it a thousand times more effective. If you put a spell on someone, you inadvertently create a link between the two of you, as well. I want that link to be formed.”

Morgane appears to have accepted the explanation, as she tilts her head, and retorts no more. On the other hand, Arthur is still confused. Is this all necessary? Do they really have to meddle with magical spells and rituals? All he wants is a moment of peace. His pleas do not reach any ears who would be willing to listen, however.

He is prohibited to say anything about this to Guinevere or Lancelot. (Even though he is the king! He is not a child anymore. He should be doing whatever he pleases. Still, he does not even know where to begin.)

“Rest well tonight, my lord. Tomorrow, when dawn breaks, you and Morgane will set out on a journey to Avalon.”


	3. A Ritual, Deep in the Ancient Forest

Her hatred is hot. Scorching. If she were a pond, she would be a steaming hot spring, the surface foaming with unveiled anger as the bubbles appear and disappear. All transient creatures. The only permanent thing in this world must be her angry hatred, which surfaces and keeps surfacing.

She has no way and no will of stopping it. Everyone deserves to be consumed by it.

But no matter how much she despises the world for doing what it had done to her, she is also patient. She tells herself to be. It is difficult to make fire in a haste. And Morgane wants to watch the world that had forsaken her burn to ashes before her very eyes. People only get one chance to make others pay for what had happened to them, and she will not let that chance pass by without making the most out of it. Patience, planning, persistence.

And her patience will yield her the greatest weapon in the world, one tiny step following after the other. Her patience allowed Merlin to make a mistake, and to resort to turning to her, and worse, trusting her in his blind panic. He must have more faith than he is given credit for, or his mind has finally given in to old age, madness, despair. 

Doesn’t he know? Morgane is not afraid of even death if that meant the perfect opportunity for vengeance. (There is only one thing she is afraid of.)

She always wanted to see how Merlin’s helpless frame would look at the stake, flames licking his body, giving him a well-deserved taste. Maybe she should bring the fire herself. The satisfaction is greater if you yourself took part.

A dragon is such a precious gift, she wonders how much it takes to forge it into the most lethal weapon.

How much can it possibly take.

 

The castle is hollow at dawn, it echoes the secrets dwelling in it, and swallows her footsteps whole as she approaches the great hall. Everybody else is waiting for her. Arthur wears simple clothes this morning, earth colours, and a tint of red. His eyes are tired, but he carries himself pretending he is healthy and ready for anything that comes for him.

Even in lavishness, he looks like a peasant boy, dressed up as king for some child’s play. Even with a crown on his head, she could hardly tell, if she did not know. A hooked nose, childish hopes unsuccessfully concealed behind his brown eyes. If Merlin went out to the surrounding villages, he would find a hundred more kingly children than that. (Perhaps that was his idea.)

Merlin is only an instrument, he’s not a skilled kingmaker.

If he wanted a king who would rule wisely on his own, a born leader: he did not find the one. If he wanted a king with a weak will, easy to be swayed and used as a puppet: he also did not find the one. Arthur is an unfitting king, but wayward too, rejecting common sense and reason. Merlin cursed himself with the choice. A good kingmaker will not use his opportunity to pay back an age-old debt.  

Arthur does not seem to recognize her when he finally looks at her, it is written on his face. Perhaps he thinks the same: with her hair tied away from her sight, plain face, and the functional, neutral toned garments, she looks like any other peasant girl from the surrounding villages. (She is any other peasant girl from the surrounding villages!) There is a pouch tied to her left side, packed with crystals from her collection. In the right hands, they bear invincible power. One or the other will be of great use for her tonight.

On her other side, another pouch filled with some food for the road, and a flask of water. She imagines it would not be enough, especially if Arthur did not prepare anything for himself. A ritual dagger she has been keeping for a special occasion. 

They leave at the break of dawn, in the utmost secrecy. Merlin sees them off until they step out on the castle grounds, sprinkling spells under their footsteps, making them hard to notice, almost invisible. He may be a talented wizard, but Morgane sees through all his magic. Even the most powerful spell seems only like a cheap trick to her. She witnessed his magic at an early age, and now she cannot be cheated. Magic is more powerful when your partner at hand is unaware. 

The path ahead reveals itself before them, calling her name. She nods towards the opening only her eyes are ready to see. “Come. You chose your appearance well.”

Perhaps being praised startles Arthur. He must not be used to that. “Why so?”

She gestures towards his attire. 

“This is a pilgrimage, not a royal visit – this time you come as a man, not as a king.”

The only sign of kingship Arthur wears on himself is his sword now, hidden from sight as much as possible. Plainness is useful.

She knows their route by heart, even though this is the first time she approaches the island from here. Leading Arthur through unknown passages, beckoning her to move forward. No matter where she starts from, the pull towards that place is always strong enough. It is where the most powerful magic dwells, where monsters and heroes are born on the very same bed of grass.

It has no alignment. No moral code. No standards of behaviour. The only thing present there is magic, an atmosphere too divine for the ordinary man to bear for too long. 

The cold around them is subtle, and not unbearable. For the longest time, they only walk next to each other silently in the misty dawn, dewdrops under their feet. Morgane has nothing to say to this man. Not now. Not yet.

Once their figures are completely obscured from the castle, Arthur takes a deep breath. “Finally,” he murmurs, presumably to himself as if he was released from a curse.

“Do not think that you are about to board a pleasure boat,” Morgane warns him immediately. “You will not be enjoying this the way you enjoy your weekly excursions with your beautiful bride and your beautiful knight.”

“I know that.”

The answer comes quickly, but she only presses her lips together. Here, at least, Arthur does not pretend that he enjoys her company at all. Here, at least, Arthur does not have to put on his kind, tolerant airs, trying to falsely convince his surroundings that he has never had a bad thought in his life. It is useless to pretend in front of Morgane.

All men are rotten, pretenders and lazy alike. All men end up committing the same crimes, taking pleasure in the same sins, putting themselves before anyone else. All men deserve a punishment, if for nothing else, but what they had done to womankind.

Unexpectedly, Arthur continues. “Although, as for what concerns anything else: I do not know at all. I visited Merlin in his chambers last night, seeking an explanation but he remains silent. Why are we to go alone? What is the meaning of this? When he finally tells me something, _anything_ , he says it in a manner that I would never decipher the meaning of it. He talks of magic, of protection, nemeses, fate, dragons… Nothing that makes sense to me.”

At that moment he seems even more pathetic than before. Simply unable to understand the world around him, and having a clear awareness of that. Yet, unable to bring change. If she would not know, Morgane could think that someone put a cruel curse on him, leaving him ignorant, and painfully aware of his shortcomings. 

“The old man would not tell you, but he’s been doubting his own power for the longest time. He is ancient, he can scarcely move, his mind is giving up on him. If you were to ask for his assistance on this journey, he would be the first to die, éaving you helpless and vulnerable. So, he begged me to accompany you to the South instead, knowing that I was his only choice. But first… to make a pilgrimage, where we ask the gods for their favours.”

If Arthur doubts her, it does not show on his face. He tastes the answer, perhaps thinking that he could have come up with silly things like this himself too. His existence is limited to the mundane world, he cannot sense beyond what his eyes can see, and his hands can touch.

"If so, why would you agree to it?" he asks then, quietly. "You do not make your hatred for Merlin a secret. You may not say it out loud, but you have no fondness for me either." 

Morgane draws her lips into a tight smile, teeth hidden. "Your old man knows how to negotiate. Clearly, it is also in my interest to accompany you." 

Arthur muses for a while. In the end, he is clearly more occupied with his own lot in life. 

“The only thing Merlin tells me is that the matter is urgent. Sister, I am surrounded by magic,” he points at the Excalibur as he talks, “and yet, I understand nothing of it. Merlin talks about his dream of waking a dragon before an adversary could do it, and yet, all I think about… cannot we let it sleep forever?”

For a king, Arthur does not seem too ambitious. Morgane has vengeance to keep her burning for something more, but when looking past it, all she sees is Arthur in herself. Not moving forward, nor willing to move backwards at the same time, for a lack of a plan for their future. A brand of fear paralyzes him, the fear of the unknown, the fear of the impossible, and the endless possibilities. 

But enough of that. First, her plan for vengeance will need to come to fruition, and whatever happens after that is simply a new chapter in the history she begins to write herself. There is no space for hesitation. 

“The old man either strings words together purposefully for you not to understand what he means or – even worse – he has no other way to say it,” she explains. “In that case, he is the one who truly does not understand the world around him.” 

That gives enough to think about for Arthur until they reach the shore. Overnight, a boat was prepared for them at a hidden spot. Her two demons and Merlin were responsible for that. Without a moment of hesitation, she leads her brother towards it. There is not a soul around them.

After climbing into the sturdy structure, she looks up at him, still standing in one place. “Come. You row.”

When no other soul is around them, she can use a tone she likes with her king, as there will be nobody to tell on her. When no other soul is around them, she can use a tone her king deserves. Arthur unsheathes his sword, throwing it into the boat. Then, he pushes it into the water and climbs after her, without even trying to protest.

“How far is the island of Avalon?” is the only thing he asks, which is the only thing suggesting that he is not happy with the outcome.

“Closer than it seems, and farther than you think.”

Arthur claims that he cannot see anything. He is probably afraid that the isle does not exist, and he will keep on rowing for the rest of his life. Before their eyes, thick mist covers the waterways, like a veil, hiding something forbidden from them. Morgane knows better.

“Magical folk have a connection to this place. We sense the way, it calls out to us if we look for it. Follow my directions, and soon enough, you will see it too.”

 

The sun reaches its peak and starts climbing downwards the horizon by the time they reach shore. Arthur looks around, unsettled, with even more uncertainty in his eyes than she is used to. From a distance away from them, so only their silhouettes would be seen, dark figures are witnessing their struggle to the shore. Motionless, they stand like statues and stare.

“You are not like the others,” Morgane answers his unuttered question. “Your presence disturbs those who dwell on this island.”

That makes him uncomfortable: he looks down at his feet like a timid young child. This is perhaps the only place Morgane knows that brings discomfort to the layman and welcomes the magical. They deserve to have this much.

She leads the man forward until they separate from the shore completely. Some people still stare at them, but most of them lose interest and scatter away. Finally, an old woman approaches them with slow, measured steps. Her hair is just as white as the garments she is wearing. She takes no notice of Morgane, apart from the exchange of a familiar look, and bends deep at Arthur’s sight, to welcome a king in a befitting manner. Even so, she does not say a single word.

Instead, she turns her back towards them and with an inviting motion of her hand, leads them into a forested, upwards on a hill. Her movements are quick for a woman her age, and Arthur marvels at that.

“Who are these people?” he asks, wondering out loud.

“Magic has the strongest influence on this island,” Morgane explains. “Magical folk who seek higher powers gather here. They learn and live here, immerse themselves with the island, becoming one with it. This is the gathering place of people who seek the gods, of healers and practisers of magic, dark and white alike.”

Arthur nods, forgetting his mouth open as he listens to her. “You know a lot of this world.”

“Or you know very little.”

Arthur hums in response: it is difficult to tell whether in agreement or taking offence. After all, he might understand just enough not to take offence in the truth.

The forest around them is quiet, and yet that is how one knows it is alive. All creatures have their attention on them, eyes, ears hidden behind the greenery following them around, trying to make out what their purpose is on this land. It is not forbidden for Arthur to be here, but he is not welcome. He disturbs the general order of the island. 

Emerald leaves and the scent of rain around them, even though the ground is completely dry. Even here, she does not feel at home, but she feels less abandoned. 

The old woman makes no attempt at talking to them until she turns towards Morgane at a crossroad, talking her in a tongue she expects Arthur not to understand. (Judging by the look on the man’s face, he surely does not understand.)

As the old woman disappears in the woods behind them, he looks after her with curious eyes. Only when her white robes completely disappear from sight he asks about her words.

“She said farewell to me,” she simply answers, and only elaborates when Arthur asks her the meaning of it. “Perhaps we got close enough to our destination and we would have no trouble finding what we are looking for. Perhaps from now on our path only continues in a straight line. Or even more likely, she got tired of being around a layman for far too long and decided to abandon us.”

“Is it uncomfortable for you? To be around people who do not understand magic?”

While she does not like it, she has to think about that question for a bit. After her mother died, she turned her back to the lay world completely, living among all sorts of demons and monsters – all creations of her own consciousness. They might have had a human appearance, but they were removed from the mundane world. And at times, Morgane feels closer to them than she feels to Arthur and his purity. (Or his façade of invented purity and innocence, which still hurts her nose all the same.)

During the few weeks she spent at Arthur’s castle, she felt more like those skin-changing demons, having crawled out of hell to gain a woman’s appearance, but simply pretending to be something that she is not.

Does she feel any more at home when she meets magical folk? She cannot say so. Always in-between. Always fired by the flames of revenge, seeing nothing else around her.

“Your conception was an unfortunate one. Even if you yourself are not receptive to magic, Merlin’s spell will always soil you.”

She says this, although other magical folk might not be sensitive to the particular brand of magic whose residue still taints him. The particular brand of magic, or a simple childhood memory. One of her firsts.

Unexpected, Arthur only hangs his head and mumbles: “Sorry.”

An apology will not change anything. For the lack of an answer, Morgane starts walking in a direction she feels the strongest pull towards. She does not even look back to make sure if her brother is following, expecting him to obey the unsaid instructions. And he does. Soon enough, he starts chattering again. He must be truly lonely to seek a partner in everyone. 

“You teach in a very different way from Merlin.”

“Because the old man does not teach, he preaches.” She adds then, after a moment of consideration. “And I do not teach either: I have nothing to teach you.”

Arthur retorts something about thinking otherwise, but she elects to ignore that comment, hoping that the conversation between them would finally cease.

The sun sinks down by the time their destination finally finds them at an opening in the forest. Since the ritual is to be completed in the night, perhaps the opening has been hiding from them until the time was right. She instructs Arthur to help her create the altar they would use: it does not matter that he knows nothing about the particulars of making one.

“There is no right or wrong way of building an altar. Since the ritual involves the two of us, the effects on us will be stronger, too, if both of us lends a hand.”

“About lending a hand…”

Arthur understands as much that this is a ritual, and a sacrifice to ask for the gods’ benevolence and divine intervention. Even so, he still has no idea what is to be sacrificed tonight. Is it an arm? How much blood would he need to spill?

“You may give anything that belongs to you. Blood. A lock of hair. Even a memory. Anything will do. But remember, the dearer what you offer is to you, the more powerful the magic becomes.”

There would be another way to go about the ritual, but she would never even consider it.

Morgane shows him her inner arm. “I will give my blood. Old-fashioned, but it serves the purpose.”  

For that reason, Arthur’s choice also lands on blood. If they sacrificed the same thing, perhaps the connection would be stronger between them, he argues. Perhaps Morgane does not want that.

But she offers so much more than her blood. Once her mission here is done, once she saw the downfall of Arthur, and then Merlin, and then all who loved them so dearly and gave their love so freely, without any care for her suffering… once that happens, nothing will matter anymore.

Her hatred will be cured. (But her suffering won’t be gone.)

Morgane unties the pouch from her belt and pours its contents into her palm. The stones barely fit in one hand. Arthur pulls closer immediately, drawn in by the appearance of the crystals glistening in the moonlight. When she speaks, her voice is barely audible.

“Choose one,” she instructs him.

Arthur’s attention immediately draws to a round stone, earthy in colour, a rich brown with tints of red. It does not matter which stone he chooses: her prayers will fill it with the appropriate magic anyway. It is light, bearing barely any weight. She tells Arthur to hold onto it and he diligently palms it through the ritual.

Her own choice is a black stone. Small, but square and heavy so it would pull down her pouch, granting her an ever-present awareness of it. Light stones are easier to lose.

Morgane has him close his eyes for the act and leads him in the middle of a modest circle they prepared, mostly of wildflowers. It is only to mark the territory within the magic can flourish, some boundary for the powers she is about to summon on the pair of them. Magic can be as simple and as complicated as one wants to make it. In fact, the rawer it is, she finds, the more effective. His sword is laid down next to him on the ground.

She tells Arthur not to peek, even though it does not matter: he can barely see in the dark anyway. Nothing happens around him that would tell him about the nature of her ritual or would yield the plea she makes towards the gods. It is foolish of both Merlin and him to trust her with the words, to trust her with conducting the ritual they asked for. Do they not know she is so vengeful?

Do they think that lending her strength really is in her interest, too? Then they do not know who Morgane is. She uses her chance and implores the gods. 

_Weaken this man. Bend his will towards mine. Let him be vulnerable to magic, so when the right time comes, I may strike him with what he deserves._

Morgane’s incantation is in a tongue she never learned but has always known. Her eyes are closed too, following some flow in the night air, which takes her body around Arthur in an interrupted circle. She speaks to the gods, and not only the gods but herself and Arthur too, a scratchy, raspy voice coming deep from her throat. Not entirely unlike herself, but different.

(Arthur might be scared, but Arthur deserves nothing less.)

Invisible strings connect the two, golden and silver, present and not present at all. She feels them, but if she opened her eyes, nothing would be there to see. The crystals will respond to her pleas, they will be cleansed of their purpose and filled with her will, take on a new form, and a new purpose.

When it is time, she takes her dagger, kneeling to face Arthur. With the dagger placed between them, freeing a hand, Morgane touches his brows, prompting him to open his eyes. They glisten black in the dark, open wide.

“Give me your arm,” Morgane asks, as she opens up his palm to fetch the stone from him, now entirely warmed up.

She rolls up both of their sleeves and draws blood from the lower arm, dripping it on their stones of choice, to seal the magic deep inside them. The blade bites, but the pain is forgettable. Arthur hisses. When she places the crystal back in his palm, his fingers immediately close above it.

“Keep this on you at all times from now on,” she instructs him. “And hidden away from sight. I will keep mine, too.”

“Is this creating a bond between us?”

She hopes not.

Arthur finds some spare cloths to cover their wounds with, something she already forgot about – but it seems like the pain lingers with him for longer. There is barely anything to see around them, and she feels exhausted as if something was lacking from inside of her, and yet weighing her down. Her lungs and throat are sore from the chanting.

“We are ready to make our way down,” she decides before she could change her mind about leaving.

“Do we have to?” Arthur looks up at the sky, then says, almost in the voice of a child. “I want to sleep.”

“This is no place to sleep at. Unless you do not mind that the grass will become your pillow tonight.”

And so, it does. Arthur’s eyes are already fluttering closed, perhaps by the sudden swish of overwhelming magic he experienced. Morgane would not know the effect it has on ordinary people. The weather is fine enough, she decides and points Arthur to the ground.

“Goodnight, then.”

She takes the overlay of her skirt off, planning to use it as a pillow, even if she does not have anything to serve as a blanket. Perhaps she should offer to share – but she does not want to.

With her back turned, she says nothing to him anymore until the sun comes up again.


	4. Voyage of the Damned

He remembers their way home to be silent, and uneventful. Perhaps they exchanged a few words, set phrases, something they thought would be necessary to share. But beyond that, nothing. Even those sentences are now consigned to oblivion, long forgotten.

Arthur only remembers one thing: his fascination.

Magic is something that is all around, and yet so alien to him. Even understanding that he trespassed into its realm almost made his legs shake, and his lips quiver. To imagine his sister coming home to this world, breathing in the familiar air, the hazy mist of lingering magic, was frightening and fascinating at the same time. Perhaps he only imagined it, the difference, as the boat swayed with them into uncertainty. But he definitely felt something.

On their way back, he thinks about that, only. Not only the way the sky looked from the grounds of Avalon, but its people, strange, forgotten, and far-away. The leaves whistling in the wind, voices of faceless, formless animals around them as they drove into the deep forest.

He always knew of the existence of all this because of Merlin. Magic surrounds him, and as a concept, it is nothing alien to him. He has heard about it, that is.

But experiencing it! It is a world parallel the world he lives in, so vivid, and full of secrets, that he may never fully understand. He was conceived on the edge of his world and theirs, but he knows that every single part of him belongs to Morgane’s “there” and his own “here.”

Arthur thinks of this, on their journey home. Of the smiling face of his lovely bride, and of setting foot into a world he is not welcome to. He has much of an experience, living in a world that does not want him. And perhaps his knowledge of the rules of magic is limited… but how much does he know about the rules of his own world? At times he thinks he understands everything and at other times there is only the darkness and the despair.

Despair, however unlikely, is a loyal companion.

He keeps the talisman Morgane enchanted for him in a pouch around his belt. Later, he may place it somewhere else: less obvious and more meaningful, but for now, he only wants to secure it.

By the time they come back to the castle, Merlin has arranged everything. Merlin likes to settle things, make decisions, perhaps even play king, even though he is supposed to be nothing more than an advisor. His advice is more of a command, on the basis of being old, perhaps wise, and knowing the ways of magic and divination.

Arthur does not like to be too stubborn. But he was made king, without his express wish. And now if this burden, heavy as it is, falls on his shoulders, then he wants to carry on following his own path, exploring his own ways. If the pain and the loneliness are the same amounts, he wishes to cause his own pain, and then account for his own mistakes.

Lancelot volunteers himself to accompany their party. Kay was forbidden to come by Merlin himself. Gawain and Urien are in the list, too, although it is unclear whether they volunteered themselves. But Arthur is not satisfied. He is not satisfied at all, especially not when he looks at the sorrowful expression of his bride.

It is so unfortunate for such a lovely, young creature, to face losing not only one, but both of the men she can rely on. Arthur may find his knight's company soothing on difficult, lonely journeys, but isn’t his bride more in need?

“I cannot entrust the protection of my wife on just anyone,” he tells Lancelot upon refusing him.

For his knight is proud, he arranges a talk between only the two of them. Gentle, but definite. A man with Lancelot’s abilities and ambition finds it hard, however, to resist such a promising quest. Perhaps Merlin talked about his visions of an exotic, powerful dragon child. Or perhaps, the silence that surrounds their journey makes it all the more attractive for his men. Free for all. Endless promises of glory. Rewards, only the limitations of their fantasies can put an end to.

“You may take part in many quests, nobler than this. Reap sweeter rewards, and prove your honour,” Arthur tells him when he tries to plead. “But only you can protect my bride while I am away.”

Lancelot wants to answer something, with the words already dancing on the tip of his tongue. He can see it. A sentence that would leave him no choice but to change his answer. More than his answer. Arthur takes a deep breath and touches the pouch under his belt. The stone is neither hot or cold inside. He can barely feel its presence, it is so light.

Their eyes lock for a second. Then, Lancelot hangs his head, defeated. “Yes, my king,” he says. He accepts.

Arthur catches him by both of his shoulders. “Do not think of this as a failure or defeat. I am counting on you.”

When Guinevere learns of the outcome, her eyes change immediately. A gasp, almost a squeal. The happiness brings a smile on Arthur’s face too – if he dies, and he may die, there is someone to accompany his bride for the rest of her life.

Of course, he trusts the magic Morgane gave him with Merlin’s approval. But there is only so far power, and magic can go. There is only so far luck can sustain someone.  And this is what kept Arthur alive.

Luck.

If he's been alive thanks to his luck for so long, surviving so many misfortunes, he must be running out of it already, so early in life.

They hold a banquet on the night before their departure, sending them off, saying their goodbyes. Morgane thinks it is unnecessary.

“All you’re doing is throwing a burial feast for yourself, letting all these people know that you expect to die on the road,” she thinks. “You should sleep instead and prepare for tomorrow.”

As for Morgane, she retires to her chambers right after their brief discussion, without having a word with anyone else.

But even if only for a moment, Arthur still wants to linger in the artificial happiness he created for himself. He doesn’t get many chances to hold the hands of his bride and his knight, so he indulges in that, and in some ale.

“It would be good,” he tells the two of them again. “If we could remain like this forever.”

But it can only ever be two of them. If he takes Lancelot with him on the journey, they abandon his bride. Such unknown roads are not for a delicate lady, like Guinevere. If he claimed that Merlin spoke nonsense, his old age getting into his head, and refused to go, there would only be space for Guinevere and him. And now, he leaves the two of them behind.

This is the perfect work of the gods, everything falling into place. Even so, he is almost reluctant to leave. Why is it that the only thing his father left for him was the duty he is burdened with? The love, the hope, the effort he all created himself. There are only limited ways of getting love from someone who has never known you and who you never knew.

And Arthur got none.

One would hope that being generous with one’s love, no matter where the receiving end is, would yield multitudes of love that comes flowing back to him. He never really felt that love, no matter how many ways he tried to give it out. And even so, this never made him handle his love sparingly. The more he wants, the more he will give.

As the night proceeds, his subjects all come to him, one by one, to wish him good luck on his quest. Some of them only say a few words, and others stay.

“Merlin deprives you of the greatest help, by holding me back,” Kay tells him, a cup of ale in each hand. A hiccup. “Even though I don’t know a single person who would be better at handling a spear than myself.”

Since Lancelot is obligated to stay back at the castle, Arthur decides, it would really make no difference if he decided to come along instead. What Merlin would say about that is an entirely different matter altogether. _He_ is king, after all.

But Merlin either hears nothing of the development or he decides to close his eyes on the matter.

“Sometimes I think that you would be better off a drunkard and I should be king, instead,” his brother tells him. The tip of his nose is entirely red. “Being so mirthful all the time is difficult of a job.”

When they set out on the journey come next dawn, Kay comes equipped with his huge spear and a sword on his side. While there is solemn resignation in the handful of other knights accompanying him, Kay is almost full of a childish excitement – feigned or not. It is not often that he would be trusted with anything that is more complicated than refilling his own cup. Arthur hopes that if nobody else, at least his brother is satisfied with the developments. 

There are tears in the eyes of his knight and his bride as they say their final goodbye. He only has a chaste kiss for Guinevere, on her cheek. She tries to send him off with a smile, but it barely works.

“I wish you luck on your journey,” his bride says, squeezing his hand.

Lancelot cries too. Perhaps because he mourns the lost opportunity for glory. Or, perhaps because much like Guinevere, he will also miss his king. Arthur settles with the latter, hoping that it is more than wishful thinking.

“I will miss you both,” he tells them, and all ignore the crack in his voice. Then, he turns to his knight, squaring his shoulders and firming his tone. “Lancelot. Take good care of my bride.”

Upon leaving, Morgane mocks him for his behaviour. First, only silently, without words, behind an amused smile, and big, judgmental eyes. Then, as the castle doors close behind them, she speaks.

“What a way to let the whole court know that your bride seeks love in someone else’s arms.”

Arthur first decides to ignore her. Then, she continues, curious. There is an insolent smile hidden in the corner of her lips.

“I wonder, do you do this, so your people know you are not as naïve as you present yourself? Or are you leaving them behind with your permission, so they won’t have to feel bad once the news of your death arrives in Camelot?”

“Won’t you miss anyone from here?” Arthur asks instead, attempting to avoid giving an answer. “Surely you understand how it feels to leave someone important behind.”

But Morgane only laughs at him.

“Attachment is weakness, baby brother. If I found myself susceptible of missing anyone from this castle, or elsewhere, I would kill them myself before anyone else could use them against me.” Then, she adds. “You should do the same.”   

Today, she is dressed similarly to the time they went to Avalon together. Her hair is tied behind her ears and her face is pale and plain without any makeup. Still, there is something intimidating about the way she carries herself, although it is neither her clothes nor her general appearance. There is something behind her gaze, however, and the deep tone of her voice.

“Isn’t it easier, to lay all your worries and pain down on someone else?” Arthur pries. He can only imagine how that must feel like.

For his whole life he’s been carrying all these burdens he was unable to word, waiting for someone that can understand and shoulder his pain. If he knew that Guinevere and Lancelot were ready, he would be so relieved to share some with them, to grow, and mutually heal.

He continues. “I wish I had someone I could relay my worries about this journey to. But Merlin only gives me vague instructions and ominous answers. I do not even know what to expect…”

“You should be expecting nothing: and be prepared for everything,” Morgane tells him, then falls silent. 

She is only a few years older than Arthur and yet she carries all that knowledge of the arcane and otherworldly, inaccessible to him. Morgane is all that. In a way, perhaps a lot more than Arthur could ever become, he thinks. He was allegedly put here to rule on earth. Morgane was put here to do nothing of the sort. She is simply a creature of magic, with no people to follow her, with no fields and subjects to rule.

And yet, it is her who can make worlds build and collapse with the snap of her finger. Arthur can only build within his own reality. She has access to two worlds all the same. So, what does it depend on? Why can one touch the Excalibur and lift it from a rock like it was constrained by only soft sand, and why can one summon old gods for protection and understand the workings of crystals and magical items but have no word in the matters of the lay world?

The more worlds you have access to, the more you understand. Isn’t it so?

He thinks to himself throughout the first half of the day, as they make their way to the bay. The servants and the knights are both scarce, and most of them only carry what is indispensable. Tents, a few items of clothing, arms, and an initial supply of provisions for the road.  When they board their ships, they are still almost filled to the brink.

Arthur would hope that this voyage is kinder to them, but soon he has to learn that rowing in the small company of two is easier. His sister still settles next to him, clutching her own arm.

The wind is stronger at sea, and the never-ending chatter and shouts of his men start hurting his ear. Their journey is longer, and this ship shakes more violently than their lonely little boat, led towards a destination by magic. There is an uncertainty in the waves under them.

“Sister,” he suddenly says. His voice is swallowed by the sea and the chattering voices, but Morgane listens. She does not turn towards him, but it is visible on her face. “We are nothing more than strangers to one another and I suspect you wish it stayed that way.”

He searches the pouch under his belt and finds the small gemstone he chose for himself and palms it, making sure that other people cannot see. Merlin never talked about crystals of any sort, and he never saw him use them, and even so, there is something that makes him feel connected to that piece of rock. Even if that connection is nothing more than a night spent in an eerie forest.

He continues. “But I think, that if this journey allows, and we could perhaps rekindle the fire… if we could make a family out of the fragments that were left for the both of us… that would make me very happy. I believe that whatever you did back on the island created a bond between us already. If along the way, we could also find love between ourselves, it would be to the benefit of us both.”

Morgane remains silent for a while. “Believe what you will.”

He wants to say something, to make her also at least closer to believing, but his stomach stops him in the middle of his sentence. Arthur barely has enough time to get to the low wall of the ship and lean over it before emptying his stomach into the water.

After he returns, the same scene happens two, three times.

“This ship sways more than the boat did,” he tells his sister, although she never asks. “I do not like it.”

Then, he stares down at the rock, still covered by his palm. “I thought this was supposed to protect me, but I only feel vulnerable here.”

Morgane presses a palm on his brows as he sits down next to her and lingers in the touch for a while. The only thing he remembers feeling is a form of shock, over the unexpected touch. Once his sister lifts her hand, she whispers.

“This will make you feel better for the rest of the voyage.”

Nothing feels too different.

“Did you put a spell on me?”

“Yes. But you cannot tell any of your men. I cannot spare so much of my energy on making the entire ship feel better.”

Arthur never knew that magic would be the sort of thing that is easily depleted, but he accepts the request. Instead, he finally puts his crystal away, and huddles closer to Morgane, in an attempt to avoid the cold.

Morgane said the spell would last until the end of the voyage, but he has no idea for how much longer they have to endure the waves and the cold winds. His sister, too, must be frozen to the bone in this weather.

“Do you know, what is it we are looking for?” he asks.

“I feel it.”

He wonders if there is any difference between the two.

As the weather gets colder, and their teeth start chattering in the cold, he thinks about his knight and his bride, back in the castle, near the warmth of the hearth. What used to be his this morning is already no more. He does not want Morgane to be right, but he truly mourned himself the night before, knowing that even if he comes back, he will come back as a different person.

Some wise men, such as Merlin, tell him that change is good and inevitable. But what is so wrong in wanting to keep being the same? The same heart, the same spirit, the same good intentions… Every change that occurred in his life only brought him misery, and so, when he is faced with another promise of a change, he wishes he could turn his back and remain as he used to be, forever.

But this evening, swaying on the whimsical waves of the sea, he understands that this voyage marks another change. Until now, he played king, following the words and ways of Merlin. From now on, he needs to walk alone.

No… not alone.

There is someone sitting beside him, just as damned as he was in his whole life, tortured and tormented by the whims of fate. They were cursed by the same name, brought up starved for the same kind of love, the love that’s been taken away from them during early infancy.

What is this voyage if not the beginning of their camaraderie and brotherhood? But, he says nothing about that, this time. He only moves slightly closer and says.

“Thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't satisfied with this but I doubt it would become any better.


End file.
